And just when you think that Uberchief's first piece was good.... Well, here's a moral tale that trumps the rest... It may seem harmless at first.... Just a goof... But be warned..... Warned by Uberchief!!!
-finn

One day long ago, when the Earth was young (not too young, but young enough to still be self-important and industrious) Ant, Fox, and Boll Weevil were taking a walk in the woods. Ant was riding on the back of Fox, while Boll Weevil struggled to keep up.

"Guys!" he gasped, "I can't keep up with you on my little boll weevil legs! Wait up!"

Ant turned his head to look at Boll Weevil. "Why don't you hop up on Fox's back with me? That way, you don't have to run so fast, and we don't have to wait on you."

"But boll weevils can't hop!" shouted Boll Weevil.

Fox turned his furry head in Boll Weevil’s direction. "What if I put my tail down so you can climb onto that?"

"But boll weevils can’t climb!' whined Bole Weevil.

"Well what the fuck can boll weevils do?" asked Fox.

"Boll," said Bole Weevil.

"How do you boll?" asked Ant and Fox simultaneously.

"Usually around 270--though I did boll a perfect game once!"

The three of them stopped: Boll Weevil to laugh maniacally at the joke he made, and Ant and Fox to stare at him.

"See," Boll Weevil began explaining, "I said 'boll,' but I meant 'bowl.' What I was trying to do...

"Oh, we know what you were trying to do," replied Ant. "We just didn't like it."

The three of them stood there for awhile in silence. Finally, Boll Weevil said, "Well, do you guys know any jokes?"

Both Ant and Fox said, "No," and then Fox turned and began jogging away. Pretty soon, boll weevil couldn't keep up, and before long, he was watching the last little bit of Fox's furry tail disappearing over the horizon. Depressed and forlorn that he had lost his only friends, Boll Weevil turned to alcohol and drugs for comfort. Pretty soon, he was sucking dick in parking lots for a hit of H or a line of coke. His depression deepened, until the only thing he could feel was the prick of the needle as it pierced his tender bole weevil skin. He lived from hit to hit, and in the rest of his days, he never told another joke. One morning he was found dead in a pile of his own refuse, with a bottle of whiskey and two five-by-seven glossy photographs of Scott Baio shoved up his little bole weevil rectum.

The moral of the story is: Bad jokes may seem harmless at first, but ultimately lead to a path of self destruction filled with drug addiction, crippling depression, and sodomy.

Uberchief

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